DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  Taylor writes driver unaware, again adding the question mark.

  ‘This victim is a young girl,’ says Morrow, ‘but again, the previous one obviously wasn’t, so that surely wasn’t an example of it not working out right.’

  Taylor writes young girl, again without comment and again adding the question mark.

  He clips the lid back on the marker pen, taps it against the fingers of his left hand.

  ‘This one was much more visceral,’ I say. ‘I mean, there was a lot more blood, if not the actual viscera.’

  Taylor unclips the lid again, writes blood on the board. This time there’s no immediate question mark.

  ‘That could be it,’ Morrow says straight away. ‘I mean, he would have expected there to be blood the first time, wouldn’t he? Someone pushed in front of a train, you’d think that’s going to be pretty grotesque, yet she kind of bounced off.’

  ‘She did,’ says Taylor.

  Another moment, then he looks at the two of us, away from the board. A small, hopeless movement of the shoulders.

  ‘Why would he want there to be blood? Why would it be a problem if there wasn’t any blood? Enough of a problem he’d need to go to all the trouble of killing someone else?’

  Morrow doesn’t have anything. I immediately start thinking of Clayton. Could this really have been him? Taylor and I were with him yesterday evening. While we came back to work, and I ended up slinking home and drowning myself in wine and porn, did Clayton immediately head out and arrange this? Did he already have the girl locked up somewhere?

  For those kinds of questions, we really need to find out who she was and establish how long she’d been missing.

  ‘You’re thinking about Clayton,’ says Taylor. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  Morrow glances at me then looks back at the board.

  ‘Whoever this is,’ says Taylor, ‘he’s given us a clue to what’s going on, and we need to work it out. He said he’d stop if we did. And yes, it sounds like Clayton, I know, just the kind of fucked up shit he’d come up with. But whoever it is, maybe they’re playing to some sort of code. Maybe they really do stop if we work it out.’

  ‘But there wasn’t blood with all of the others,’ says Morrow, ‘that’s the odd thing. Obviously there was with the double beheading, but the guy who was knocked out and pumped full of crap? I mean, there might have been a little blood, I don’t remember. But there definitely wasn’t with the woman left in the basement. And it’s not as though that one looked like it might not have gone to plan. It was... meticulous in its planning.’

  Taylor turns back to the board. We all look at the single word up there, the one without a question mark against it. Blood.

  ‘Could be he wants to see blood, but the woman in the basement wasn’t one of his,’ says Morrow.

  ‘He sent me the here’s one I prepared earlier text,’ I say.

  Morrow grunts.

  Taylor thrusts his hands further into his pockets. Takes a pace or two to the side.

  ‘I feel like it’s right there,’ he says.

  Taps himself on the side of the head, hand goes back into his pocket.

  Knock at the door, Constable Ablett sticks her nose into the room.

  ‘Call for you, Sir. A Dr Brady?’

  Taylor snaps his fingers.

  ‘The shrink,’ he says. ‘Right, I need to speak to her, so we’ll just leave this for now. But don’t... just, you know, keep this in mind, let’s think of something.’

  He leaves the room, Morrow and I follow.

  Back out into the open plan, the usual hum of activity. Morrow goes straight to his desk, I stand looking around. Sunday morning, most of us still clearing up the remnants of whatever business came our way the night before, ninety-seven per cent of which will have been alcohol-related.

  On the far side of the room DI Gostkowski is talking to Constable Adams, leaning across the desk pointing something out on an image on the computer screen. I watch her, not really thinking anything in particular. Mind wanders. Finally manage to shake myself out of it.

  Back to the desk, look around at the paperwork, stare blankly at the screen, an almost unconscious check to see if there are any more anonymous e-mails, and then I pick up the phone to this agent of Clayton’s.

  Sunday morning, not really expecting to get anywhere, but the phone is answered immediately.

  ‘Hey.’

  She’s young. Everybody’s getting to sound too bloody young.

  ‘I’m looking for Davina Rockwell.’

  ‘You’ve found her!’

  Jesus, she sounds enthusiastic about just being who she is. How utterly depressing. Immediately I know my voice will plummet several points on the enthusiasm scale to compensate.

  ‘This is Detective Sgt Hutton, Police Scotland...’

  ‘Right. Thought you sounded Scottish. Cool... Wait! Yes, yes, of course, you sent me an e-mail. I meant to call you, just totally snowed just now off the back of London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘The Book Fair.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Complete bedlam as always, and I don’t just mean the amount of work. And this year it seemed even more bonkers than usual. I mean, God, it was like seven weeks ago now, and we’re still chasing our tails. Seven weeks! Anyway... let’s see, I’m just bringing up your e-mail. Wait for it, wait for it...’

  Fuck. It would be nice if everyone on the planet was in their forties and sensible. That’s probably asking too much.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course, you wanted to talk about Michael Clayton’s memoir. Awesome. Did you want to make an offer, because we haven’t actually gone out yet?’

  ‘What?’

  I’m looking down the phone at her like she’s an idiot.

  ‘I wondered if you wanted to make a publishing offer?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say, feeling rather good about myself for not peppering that very short sentence with the word fuck. ‘I’m from the police. Why would I make an offer?’

  ‘Well, that’s what the police usually do.’

  To be fair to the girl Davina, she sounds like she’s looking down the phone at me like I’m the idiot.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘When someone who’s been the victim of police harassment is writing a book about it, the police often offer alongside publishing companies. Obviously they’re looking to tie up the rights to the book to prevent publication.’

  ‘No they don’t!’

  ‘Sure they do. Happens all the time. The police bid is always included. Usually serves to push the price up too. We love it.’

  ‘Police Scotland doesn’t have that kind of money,’ I argue. She’s got me believing her, though, even as I argue the point.

  I can see the shrug at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Far as I know it was brought in as a money-saving measure,’ she says.

  ‘Jesus, what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘If someone, some innocent victim of police harassment, and let’s be honest, they are, frankly, legion, is about to publish a memoir, frequently you’ll find the police going to court to stop publication. Invariably they’ll a) lose, and b) end up with an enormous legal bill. Somebody, at some point, no idea who, decided it was more cost effective to buy up the book, put in some clause about the author being unable to publish his story in any other form anywhere else on the planet, then they stick the manuscript in the same warehouse they put the Ark of the Covenant at the end of the first Indiana Jones.’

  I let the phone drop a little, and stare across the desk at Morrow. He gives me a inquisitively raised eyebrow, then realises I’m more just idly staring into space, and once more bows his head to whichever part of our business he’s currently working on. Phone back up to my ear, elbow on the desk, forehead planted into the palm of my hand.

  I hate the police sometimes. I hate the fact this shit happens, and not for a moment do I think she’s pulling my chain.

  ‘That’s all very depressing,’ I say.
>
  She giggles. Yep, that’s it. A giggle.

  ‘It works for us,’ she says.

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Anyway, if you’re not on to bid, why are you on...?’

  The voice drifts off, I decide to wait until the thought process has worked its way through her brain.

  ‘Wait... Sgt Hutton? The Sgt Hutton?’

  ‘Not entirely sure how you mean that,’ I say.

  ‘The Sgt Hutton who’s all over Michael’s book?’

  ‘He’s mentioned me by name?’

  She laughs.

  ‘You’re going to be the star of the show, Sergeant! Gosh, I was sleeping on the job this morning, wasn’t I?’

  Another giggle.

  A minute ago, despite everything, I was beginning to think she sounded quite nice. Attractive, in that way people can be as attractive as you want them to be when you’re just talking to them on the phone.

  Now I just want her to shut the fuck up. Fucking giggling.

  ‘Would it be possible to see some of what Mr Clayton has been writing, to talk perhaps about the process of –’

  She cuts me off with the laugh.

  ‘I can’t do that, Sergeant. I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, but you know, hashtag-YOLO, you’ve got a lovely voice, that whole Scottish thing, so I don’t mind. But really, client-agent confidentiality at this stage, so we have to keep it, you know, low-key. So we can talk, just not about what you want to talk about.’

  She giggles again.

  I take a second, during which I contemplate just hanging up without speaking, then quickly say, ‘Thanks for everything, we’ll be in touch,’ and hang up just as she’s sounding disappointed and sending a metaphorical sad face emoji down the phone.

  Push the handset away from me, place my head in both hands.

  I hate speaking to young people. Adds decades to your life.

  ‘Come on,’ grumbles Taylor, as he walks past my desk, ‘get your head out your arse, we’re going to talk to the psychiatrist.’

  29

  Taylor and me and the psychiatrist, sitting outside a café on the edge of Glasgow Green. Sun starting to break through, shirt sleeve weather. Not really the place to be conducting an interview with anyone, as the café is busy, and there are a lot of children around. The law of all things dictates it won’t be long before one of the weans is crying.

  The park is bustling, people hanging out, topless guys with beer bellies kicking balls around, mothers with prams, kids on the charge, a couple of old yins on mobility scooters. A guy speeds by on his racing bike, attired in bright yellow and turquoise Lycra, looking like a total dick.

  Coffees placed on the table by the waitress, the psychiatrist already on her second cigarette. She’s wearing a neck-high blouse, which most people in Scotland would probably think too warm for this kind of weather, but which would be getting worn beneath another three layers in this temperature in the rest of Europe. Whatever, it hugs her body, making her breasts look sensational.

  Yeah, so I’m back. Bite me.

  She’s also wearing sunglasses, which isn’t great, but I’m leaving it to Taylor to ask her to remove them. No thought, however, she might be wearing them to obscure the look in her eyes. It really has turned bright, the glare exaggerated by the white paintwork of the café exterior.

  ‘How long has he been seeing you?’

  She has a small smile on her lips. Her hair is blonde, her lipstick bright red, her blouse dazzling white in the sun. What a look. Total vamp. And that smile...

  ‘Can’t answer that,’ she says.

  ‘Are we going to get anything out of you?’ I ask.

  ‘You never know,’ she says, this time turning to me. ‘If you ask the right the thing.’

  ‘Can we ask how often you’ve seen Mr Clayton this past week?’

  She pauses, takes the opportunity to lift the cup and take a sip of coffee. The cup gets placed back in the saucer with a red lipstick mark on the rim. Fuck, that’s sexy.

  Jesus, I’m so in the wrong job. I mean, I’m not saying there’s an actual job where it would be a prerequisite to get turned on by vampy women leaving lipstick marks on a coffee cup, but it does point to me being completely shit at what I’m supposed to be doing.

  ‘I see Mr Clayton most days,’ she says.

  ‘And this week?’

  ‘I’ve seen Mr Clayton every day this week.’

  This time Taylor is the one to take a pause, lifting his cup. He slurps, and is nothing like as hot as the psychiatrist.

  ‘Is that normal?’ I ask. ‘I mean, it sounds like some pretty serious shit, to be seeing a patient every day, doesn’t it? You’re going to have to be pretty fucked up, right?’

  She smiles again, puts the cigarette in her mouth, draws it in while I imagine her eyes are on me, her cheeks sucking in, then blows the smoke out to the side.

  Dunhill reds. Nice. She offered us one, and I said no, out of some sort of sense of duty or something. You know, thought I shouldn’t be smoking on the job, some shit like that. Desperate for one now.

  ‘I’m not going to get into how fucked up Mr Clayton may, or may not, be. He likes to see me most days. I will have a set number of appointments every week, and if he wants any extra, I’ll do it if I have time.’

  ‘And how did it go this week?’ asks Taylor.

  Another sip of coffee, another aloof glance cast away over the park. What the fuck is this woman doing on Glasgow Green? She should be in Monte Carlo.

  You know, I’m not even sure she’s that great looking, I mean, underneath it all, but she’s got poise and style and oozes fucking sex. Holy shit...

  ‘We had three appointments booked between Monday and yesterday. I also saw Mr Clayton on the days when we had nothing booked.’

  ‘And was he particularly bad this week? Was there something...’

  Taylor lets the question go, as the femme fatale is shaking her head.

  ‘Nuh-huh,’ she says, before taking another draw, then holding the cigarette out to the side, perfectly poised between her fingers.

  I reckon, and I think it could be do-able, she might be the right psychiatrist for me. Taylor and Connor both want me to start seeing one, she is one, so why wouldn’t it work? I would happily lie down on a couch for her any day. I’d tell her everything, ‘n’ all.

  ‘Are you aware Mr Clayton is writing a book?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he told you much about it?’

  Hesitation, the sunglasses turned my way, then she says, ‘He’s read me parts of it.’

  ‘Are you prepared to discuss it?’

  She smiles. Fuck, man, those lips.

  ‘He has a nice style. Captivates the reader right from the off.’

  The sunglasses move from one to the other of us, along with the lips. The smile goes, the sunglasses stay on Taylor.

  ‘Could you take the glasses off, please?’ he asks finally.

  She doesn’t rush to it, as I presume she does not rush to anything, then slowly she removes them. Closes her eyes, possibly against the brightness, then opens them, still looking at Taylor.

  ‘You want to look deep into my eyes and check I’m not lying, Chief Inspector?’ she says.

  Yeah, OK, her eyes are terrific. I wondered if the dark glasses were covering up something bland, that perhaps the eyes would detract from the mystery and the allure. But no. Straight up, gorgeous eyes. Deep, powerful, drawing you in.

  I know, I know. Mood I’m in, one of the female Muppets would draw me in.

  Taylor holds her gaze, pretty damn tight too. Doesn’t let go. Much better at not giving in to these women the way I do. Much better police officer on all sorts of levels.

  ‘We’re investigating a series of murders in this city,’ he says slowly. Great edge to his voice. You could get chills listening to this shit. ‘Some of them have been horrific. All of them, whichever way you look at it, as murders do, have left someone dead. Someone’s wife, someone’s husband, some
one’s son or daughter, someone’s mum or dad. That’s what happens when somebody dies. Every death leaves someone else scarred. Now you can hide behind your confidentiality all you like, and I completely appreciate your right and your need to do so, but we too know things we can’t tell you, and we have reason to suspect Michael Clayton might be involved in these murders. Whatever else you think, Dr Brady, I’m sure you don’t want to protect a serial murderer. So please, within whatever bounds of confidentiality you are constrained, tell us everything you can, and will you please stop with the fucking 1940s Hollywood vamp shtick.’

  Cool. Calling her out on the cover. Very bold. I mean, she might be like this all the time. This could be her, who she is. She’s a blonde fucking Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She’s been like this since 1994. That’s a long time to be someone, then to have somebody else see through you and tell you to cut it out.

  The look you take as an adult, any look, even if it’s the most understated, dull-as-shitwater look of the invisible shadow, is still a conscious decision, and it’s pretty major when someone says, stop being you. Stop being who you think you are, or want to be.

  Unless, of course, he’s better at this than I am – fucking ha! – and he sees through her. He recognises she’s been like this for all of ten minutes. Or she’s like this when she’s speaking to people she doesn’t want to be speaking to.

  She holds the gaze. Maybe there’s a marginal shake of the carefully held cigarette.

  She puts it to her mouth, last suck, then grinds it out in the ashtray, the final movement allowing her to break eye contact, as she blows the smoke away to the side.

  ‘I’ve seen Mr Clayton six times in the last six days,’ she says. Voice steady. If she’s been rocked by being called out, it’s not showing. ‘I wouldn’t say there’s been anything different about his behavior during this time. He’s a troubled man, and I’m not openly going to speculate on the cause of that trouble.’

  ‘Can you tell us at what time your appointments have been?’ asks Taylor.

  ‘Four o’clock every afternoon,’ she says.

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The smile again. Looks like he hasn’t dented the veneer even a little, and I like her all the more.